Good-bye, Isa dearest, we shall often—very often meet,” were the parting words of Edith that night.
Wrapped up warmly for protection from the cold air, Isa descended the steps beneath the lofty portico of the Castle, and entered the luxurious carriage which her uncle had placed at her command. As she sank on the soft cushions, a dreary, aching sensation came over her heart; she felt as if she were leaving brightness, happiness, beauty behind her, and going to an abode of trial—almost privation—which she could hardly regard as a home.
“It is wrong, very wrong in me to feel thus,” Isa murmured to herself. “If visits to the Castle make me discontented, the fewer they are the better; but it seems to me that my only happy time now will be the time spent with Edith. I have nothing at the Castle to wear my spirits, or chafe my temper, my cousin is so sweet, my uncle so kind,—when under their roof I seem to be able to shut out disappointment and care. Ah! that word disappointment, it reminds me of the cottage-lecture which I heard this evening. Are the Midianites in possession of my heart? Are my crosses—what I have deemed crosses—rather burdens laid upon me by enemies, under whose yoke I should never have stooped?”
As the carriage rolled on through the darkness, Isa pursued the train of her reflections. Disappointment, Discontent, Dissension, Distrust, the Midianites in the soul—was she now harbouring them in her own? Isa could not bear to let her mind dwell long upon the first; even now, after the lapse of years, when she had had too good cause to believe that the idol which she had raised in her heart had been of clay, Isa dare hardly own to herself that Lionel had been unworthy of her love, and that his love had not been enduring, because it had contained no element of immortality. Shrinking from close self-examination on a subject so tender, Isa passed on to that of Discontent; painfully aware as she was that that spirit was struggling within her breast, that she was tempted to regard her present lot with emotions of bitterness amounting almost to rebellion.
“Saints have been content in poverty, serene in suffering, joyful in tribulation,—they have made even dungeon-walls echo to their hymns of praise,” thought Isa, “and here am I, with youth, health, competence, kind friends, blessings unnumbered and undeserved,—here am I, cast down, irritable, murmuring, and depressed, because I dwell in a house which does not suit my taste, but which is a thousand times more comfortable than those inhabited by most of my poor fellow-creatures. I am annoyed at a little petulance from an invalid brother, while many, better than myself, have to endure harshness amounting to cruelty, hatred, persecution, and scorn. How have I merited that my trials should be so much lighter than theirs? Have I any cause to murmur? have I any right to complain? Is it well that I should compare my lot with that of the few, instead of that of the many, and give place to ungrateful discontent instead of thanking God that He has bestowed upon me so much more than my due? Why should my thoughts dwell on Edith’s happiness instead of on the misery that I see yet nearer to me in the squalid homes of Wildwaste? I must go more amongst the poor; yes, in so doing I shall not only obey God’s command, but find weapons against the intrusion of sinful discontent.
“Dissension! I can scarcely say that there is that in my home, though there is, I fear, but little of true affection; and words of impatience and looks of coldness make life’s road seem very rough!” The simile was probably suggested to Isa’s mind by the jolting motion of the carriage, for the smooth gravel drive through the baronet’s grounds was now exchanged for the rough road across the common, which was seldom traversed except by the carts, which had left deep ruts in the boggy soil. “But what was the cause of that intensely bitter feeling which arose to-day—which always arises in my mind at the bare mention of Cora Madden? Why should the remembrance of her be sufficient to drive away the holiest and happiest thoughts? Surely the Midianites are within, hatred, malice—nay, I almost fear the spirit of revenge! I sometimes feel such an intense—such an unholy longing for retribution to come upon that woman, that she should taste some of the bitterness of the cup of misery which she has caused me to drink! And are such longings consistent with Christianity? do they not arise from the influence of the spirit of evil? While such emotions are harboured in my heart, can there ever be peace within? God help me, for my strength is as weakness against such a Midianite as this!
“And Distrust”—here Isa’s meditations were suddenly brought to a close by her arrival at Wildwaste Lodge. The loud, authoritative knock which broke in such an unusual manner the stillness which had pervaded that dull tenement brought Lottie Stone running in haste to the door. She was a shy, black-eyed little maiden, who looked up in timid awe at Sir Digby’s tall footman in his splendid livery, but greeted her young mistress with a smile of rustic simplicity.
“Has your master gone to rest yet?” asked Isa.
“Not yet; he’s a-waiting for you in the study.”
Isa entered her brother’s almost unfurnished apartment. One dull candle threw faint light on bare walls, and a table and chairs that would have looked shabby in a farm-house. On one of the latter (there were but three) was seated Gaspar Gritton. He was a man still in the prime of life, but the sallow complexion and stoop consequent on protracted ill health, made him look several years older than he in reality was. Gaspar had been rather handsome in youth, and still his features, though contracted, were good; but his eye was dull, and the whole expression of his face unpleasing: it was marked by dissatisfaction and peevishness, and more so than usual as Isa entered his study.
“I wish that you would tell those fellows not to startle one by such thundering raps,” said the invalid brother.
“I am sorry that the knock disturbed you; its loudness was certainly disproportioned to the occasion,” replied Isa, good-humouredly, as she seated herself by her brother; “I will tell John to announce my return in a more modest manner next time.”
“I don’t know why you should come in a carriage at all. You might have walked home with Lottie and Mrs. Bolder after the meeting was over; the night is perfectly fine. I expected you before half-past eight, and now it is almost eleven.” Gaspar took a pinch of snuff to soothe his aggrieved feelings, this being the sole luxury in which he habitually indulged; his doing so happened unfortunately to be particularly disagreeable to Isa.
“My uncle kindly wished me to stay the evening with himself and Edith, and to pass every day on which lectures are given with them at the Castle,” said Isa.
“Gadding—always gadding; girls are never satisfied at home,” observed Gaspar with a sneer.
Isa felt irritated and inclined to make a retort, but she suppressed the words on her tongue, and replied as cheerfully as she could,—
“You cannot wonder at my liking to meet with some of my nearest relations; and were I to see absolutely nothing beyond our Wildwaste domain, I might grow as antiquated and whimsical as Robinson Crusoe himself. But I fear that you have passed but a dull evening without Isa to sing or read to you, Gaspar.”
The ungracious brother made no reply; he only applied again to his little brown box.
“Sir Digby asked me if you would not join his circle,” continued Isa; “but I told him that you did not yet venture to expose yourself to the night air. Was I right? You will, of course, call upon him some morning; you will find him a pleasant acquaintance.”
“I am not hunting after acquaintances; I’ve neither health nor spirits for society,” replied Gaspar, rising languidly from his chair; “and as for these grandees of the Castle, I should not find them much in my line, however much they may be in yours.”
The brother and sister, after a cold “Good-night,” retired to their several apartments, Isa asking herself as she ascended the chilly staircase whether it were his fault or her own that she was disappointed in Gaspar.
She found her little servant Lottie awaiting her in her room, ready to perform the offices of lady’s-maid, in which the young rustic took great pride and pleasure. Lottie Stone was a source of amusement as well as of interest to Isa; in her simplicity and ignorance she was so utterly unlike any of her class whom the lady had met with before. The girl, painfully shy before strangers, had a naive frankness with her young mistress, which was almost like the confidence of a child. Isa by no means discouraged this confidence, which gave her much influence over the young being placed under her care. The rustic knew little of manners, and was once detected in the act of snuffing the candle with her fingers. Isa in vain tried to teach her to understand the thermometer by which the valetudinarian regulated the heat of his room, and seemed to have no idea of the difference between hot weather and cold. Gaspar used angrily to declare that Lottie was certain to leave the window open whenever a sharp east wind was blowing. In defiance of etiquette, if anything playful were said at table, Lottie Stone was certain to laugh; and she would stand, dish in hand, to listen to a lively anecdote related by Isa to her brother, quite oblivious of the fact that the viands were growing cold. Gently and smilingly Isa corrected the mistakes of the inexperienced Lottie, and tried to soften down the displeasure of Mr. Gritton, who was far less disposed to show indulgence. Much might be excused, she would observe, in a girl so perfectly honest and truthful: the grain of the wood was so good, that it was worth taking the trouble to work it, and the polish would be added in time. Isa encouraged Lottie to open her heart to her without reserve: but for this kindly intercourse between mistress and maid, the life of the young girl would have had little of brightness, as Hannah, the only other servant, was both ill-tempered and deaf. “Miss Isa” was all in all to Lottie, looked up to, beloved and obeyed with affectionate devotion. Lottie’s happiest time was the half-hour spent at night with her mistress; for while she brushed Isa’s long silky tresses, the lady entered into conversation with her. When Miss Gritton first trusted her beautiful hair into Lottie’s inexperienced hands, she had something to suffer as well as to teach; but pains and patience had their usual effect, and it was only when the little maid was speaking of something of special interest that she tried the philosophy of her kind young mistress.
ISA AND LOTTIE STONE.
“So you were at the lecture to-night, Lottie. I hope that you were attentive to all that the clergyman said.”
“I did try to be so, Miss Isa; there were things as I couldn’t make out; but Mrs. Bolder and me, we was talking it over all the way home, and was looking for the Midianites in the heart.”
“And did you find any?” asked Isa.
“Mrs. Bolder, she was a-saying that it’s very hard to keep out distrust when things go so contrary in life. She has a deal of trouble, has Mrs. Bolder, now that her husband’s laid up and crippled with rheumatics, and she’s all the work of the shop upon her; it’s a’most too much for her, she says. She can’t help wondering why God should send such sickness and pain to her husband, who was al’ays a good, steady-going man, and a tea-totaller,”—Lottie uttered the word almost with reverence; “if he’d been given to drink it would have been different, you know.”
The saddened tone of Lottie as she uttered the last sentence reminded Isa of what Mr. Eardley had told her of the early trials of this more than orphan girl. A brutal father, addicted to intemperance, had made the hovel in which Lottie had passed the first years of her life, a den of poverty and woe. Then this father, unworthy of the name, had absconded, deserting an unhappy wife and two children, the elder of whom, a boy, from physical infirmities and dulness of mind, was yet more helpless than the poor little girl. Mr. Eardley had been for years the earthly protector of the family; he had procured employment for Deborah Stone, had had her children taught in his school, had, as we know, found a place for Lottie as soon as she was able to take one, and had often put such work in the way of her brother as the poor lad was not incapacitated from performing.
“And did you find the Midianite Distrust in your own soul also?” asked Isa.
The mournful tone of Lottie changed to a cheerful one as she made reply, “Oh! as mother says, who’s to trust God if we don’t, when He has helped us through such a many troubles, and given us such kind friends? Only—just—sometimes,” she added more slowly, “when I thinks of poor father, then a feeling will come; but I s’pose it’s wrong—God is so good!” and she sighed.
Isa perceived that the shadow of the poor girl’s great trial lay on her young heart still.
“You can always pray for your father, Lottie.”
“I do, Miss Isa, I do, morning and evening, and so does mother; and surely God will hear!” cried the girl, brightening up at the thought. “He knows where bees father, though we don’t; and maybe He will bring him back to us at last.”
There was something touching to Isa in the clinging affection of the young creature towards a parent whom she could not honour, and whom she had so little cause to love.
“And did you find any Discontent lurking within?” inquired the lady, returning to the point of conversation from which she had diverged.
“Discontent!” repeated Lottie, opening her black eyes wide at the question; “O Miss Isa, how could I—with meat every day, and a whole sovereign every quarter? That would be ungrateful indeed! Ah! if you knew how we lived here at Wildwaste when I was little, in the cottage that’s been pulled down—close by the ‘Jolly Gardener’ it was, where the school is a-standing now! We’ve been half the day—mother, brother, and I—without breaking a bit of bread; and we might have been the other half too,” added Lottie, naively, “had not Mrs. Holdich been so kind, and the tall gentleman from the Castle, bless him! he brought us nice things from his own table under his cloak.”
“Do you speak of Mr. Madden?” asked Isa, with a little tremulousness in her tone.
“Yes; the best, the kindest gentleman as ever lived—barring Mr. Eardley,” said Lottie, warmly. “He was al’ays teaching the children good, and looking arter the poor.”
“Lionel Madden,” murmured Isa, dreamily; it was the first time for years that that name had passed her lips.
“Oh no, not he!” exclaimed Lottie, in a tone more emphatic than her hearer liked, for it conveyed more distinctly than words that Lionel was one of the last persons likely to play the philanthropist in the manner described. “It was not he, but his brother. Mr. Lionel! he never gave to nobody, nor did nothing for nobody as ever I heard of; only,” added the girl, with a little laugh, “he switched my brother over the head with his riding-whip once, to make him stand out of his way.”
Isa did not care to keep up the conversation; she took up an elegantly-bound book which lay on her toilette-table, to convey a hint of silence to her little maid-servant. The volume was a collection of sacred poetry, and the lady’s eyes rested long and thoughtfully upon the well-known verse on which their gaze first fell as she opened the book. It appeared like a comment on what she had heard that evening on the subject of Disappointment.
“Good when He gives, supremely good,
Nor less when He denies;
E’en trials from His sovereign hand
Are blessings in disguise.”
So, whether she acknowledged the fact or not, had it been in God’s dealings with Isa Gritton.
